Coming to a Close
by Mortimer S
Summary: Lord Ire's found a new weapon, and he's more than ready to use it. With the summoning of Close, master of the mind arts, Pretender's dreams shall pave the way to a bleak future. Secular Viewpoint. Somewhat dark. Canon pairings.
1. The Summoning

**Disclaimer**: Obviously, considering I'm writing fan fiction, I don't own rights to any canon materials or characters. The awe-inspiring Mrs. Paul owns all that.

**Author's Note:** Yes, I am aware that Pretender is supposed to represent the Devil and all that, considering the Dragon Keepers Chronicles are Christian fiction. But let's put that aside for right now. Let's look at the series from a completely secular and literal point of view, as if it were simple fantasy. And now let's dabble around with the evildoer, since he is, as always, a very interesting subject. Suddenly, BAM, you have a crazy fan fiction speculating on Pretender's rationale and intention, past him generally being evil.

**Warnings:** A bit AU, because of the secular viewpoint. Lord Ire may say/think some undesirable things about Wulder. There will be a major OC.

**Full Summary:** Despite a few dastardly schemes and behind-the-scenes advances against the forces of Wulder, Pretender has yet to do any real damage. His Low Races are, in the end, mere pests-moronic and cowardly ones at that, and they generally stay out of the way of Wulder's people. There hasn't been any evil activity for decades. And the people have grown complacent. The wizards' more important duties now involve attending social functions. Even Paladin is on the verge of letting his guard down, for real. But Pretender is merely lying in wait, stewing over his vendetta against Wulder. He is gathering his forces, constructing plans, and honing his newest weapon, a weapon he believes will finally win him a following, and, more importantly, his revenge. Lord Ire is preparing to finally live up to his name.

* * *

There were very few members of the High Races willing to serve Lord Ire. Even when they did so, he held no illusions that they were anything but the worst lot, a self-serving and avaricious bunch that held no sense of honor or loyalty, people who'd somehow missed out on Wulder's gifts. The real people of Wulder looked down upon Lord Ire's creations, and, in turn, looked down upon him. Yet, despite his fearsome name, he could not bring himself to feel hatred at this. His creations were inferior, aptly dubbed the Low Races. He knew it was true, and so he could not fault the people of Wulder for their disdain. However much he wanted someone other than himself to blame, there was nobody. Deep within his soul, he felt he deserved their scorn. Even with all the impossible things he'd accomplished, he just wasn't good enough. Lord Ire was nothing but a Pretender, a farce. By claiming immortality without obeisance, he had knowingly defied Wulder, and for this, Wulder had destroyed him. He'd vowed to return the favor, but how could one defeat one's foe when said foe was a nearly omniscient entity without body? There was of course Wulder's earthly messenger, Paladin, but Lord Ire knew the mockery for what it was. Paladin and he could be twins at a cursory glance. People said that they could tell the difference, that Lord Ire had frown lines and cold eyes because he was evil, but in reality, the two were no different in body.

Lord Ire clenched his fist and slammed it against the wall, sending a jarring pain through his hand, which he steadfastly ignored. Normally, he would have dented or perhaps even cracked the stone wall, but the room he currently stood in was far too infused with magic to be damaged by a mere blow, even from a man like him. This place was Lord Ire's greatest pride, and yet from it came his greatest shame. It was his ritual chamber, a dark, dank place charged by his very life force, and it was where each of the seven Low Races had been born. Lord Ire was not going to make another attempt at creation. He was certain that he would never reach the level of power Wulder had displayed. Wulder was nothing less than a magical source. There had been very little to limit His power when he'd created his races. Lord Ire had long realized this by the time he'd given rise to his third being, his third mockery of life. That was exactly what it was, and Lord Ire knew it. It was a twisted, stupid creature, and it sought only to eat and sleep, and cause pain when it could. Lord Ire understood now that it was his emotions that fueled his limited power over life, and that he could never do as Wulder had done and create with love. He'd tried, at first, but the emotion had been far too weak, and he'd only made a wretched, cowardly thing. Wulder had taken his heart. He wanted power and obedience now, not love, but his dominating nature had only gotten in his way. But there was no changing that. He'd long given up on his dream of surpassing Wulder's creations, and he had deliberately created four races imbued with cruelty and mindlessness, just so he could spite his enemy and have seven races of his own, even if their quality wasn't exactly up to par. He had actually gotten somewhere with his second creation attempt, made beings with intelligence who were capable of following orders, but he'd quickly learned that it meant they were also capable of betrayal.

He was done with the messy process of creation. Lord Ire was in his ritual room now for something else, something better. This time, he would have a weapon. He'd been given something special through his dreams, and he would use it to his advantage. A small, silver ring sat in his palm, a ring which would summon him a servant from elsewhere. Where exactly this elsewhere was, Lord Ire did not bother to consider. It could be another dimension, another planet, for all he cared. All he knew was that the ring would give him his ultimate weapon. His dream had said as much, and, from prior experience, Lord Ire knew never to dismiss his dreams, however much he wanted to. They had, many times before, predicted his defeat, down to the last detail. Now, they would predict his victory, his rise to power. He would finally be respected for his accomplishments, and perhaps he would have one over Wulder. How satisfying that would be. Unfortunately, he couldn't savor the expression of defeat on his enemy's face, since Wulder had none, and Paladin's face was his own. But it didn't matter. Such things were superficial, petty. It would be enough to know that he had done something right for once.

So, even if his rational self felt silly trusting a dream, of all things, he listened and stood in the center of his ritual chamber, holding up the silver ring and twisting it three times in the air, just as his dream self had done. He felt a thrilling streak of magic course through his fingers and down his arm, spreading to the rest of his body before settling comfortably around his navel. Lord Ire closed his eyes, projecting his true emotions. Waves of pride, ambition, anger, and a desire for control entwined with the magic around him, coalescing into a colorful, swirling vortex and bringing light to the underground room. Lord Ire felt a powerful blast of cold air surge around him, yet he had the distinct impression that he was on fire, though he felt nothing. A muted blue brightness filtered past his closed eyelids, flickering playfully. As quickly as it had come, it ended, and the room returned to its previous state of dim lighting

"You called for me?"

The voice was low and raspy, as if the speaker hadn't used it in awhile, but it was still unmistakably young. Lord Ire opened his eyes slowly, and was greeted by the sight of two large, yellow irises with split pupils. It was almost painful to look into those eyes. He surveyed rest of the creature before him, and, to his annoyance, found himself quickly comparing it to the people of Wulder's High Races. It looked remarkably like a young o'rant boy, except for its strange eyes and the fact that it had a small pattern of scales on its neck and chest.

"Yes." Lord Ire finally said. There really was no other way to respond. He wanted to ask the creature what it was, but he was reluctant to admit his ignorance. As it turned out, the decision was made for him.

"Do you know who I am? Do you know _what_ I am?" the creature asked pointedly. Lord Ire had a sudden feeling of vulnerability, one he hadn't had since he'd achieved his goal of immortality. He brushed it away, chiding himself for being foolish. If the creature turned on him, he would be able to defend himself. Lord Ire was anything but helpless. But he still had no idea what the thing was.

"No." he said. To his supreme annoyance, the creature smirked at this.

"A risk taker, are we? I am the Ancient Close. Since you have come upon my talisman, I can only assume you're my new master." it said. For some inexplicable reason, the creature's tone grated on Lord Ire's nerves. He scowled. The Ancient Close, or whatever it was, grinned, and added, "but if you're not up to the job, I can always kill you and find someone else."

"That won't be necessary." Lord Ire ground out, closing his eyes in unexplained exasperation. What was it about this thing that infuriated him?

"Very well then, master. Just understand that I'm not like the other Ancients. I'm not going to grovel at your feet or something ridiculous like that. I don't care if you're 'immortal.' I can rip the soul from your very body, so don't try anything funny." Close said pointedly. Lord Ire finally realized why he felt annoyed. This was supposed to be his servant, his weapon! He didn't expect it to be so... insubordinate. But if Lord Ire had anything redeeming about him after all those spiteful years, it was patience. He wouldn't be bested by the thing's attitude, or it's supposed powers. From what his dream had shown him, he could still tell it what to do, and that was enough.

"Of course. I don't plan on dying anytime soon, before my score against Wulder is settled."

"Wulder?" Close asked, apparently in genuine curiosity, its yellow eyes now blinking innocently.

"The so-called Creator? The great one?" Lord Ire prompted. He could hardly believe that this thing had never heard of Wulder, or how satisfied that fact made him. _Everyone_ had heard of Wulder, and that was what made him so angry.

"Like religion?" Close's voice was blank and inquiring. Lord Ire shook his head.

"Religion? Just know that all of the High Races are completely enamored with Him and His principles, because they have never seen His terrible side." he said, trying his best to explain. Close rolled its bright yellow eyes.

"I just came from another dimension. You will have to pardon my ignorance of your world, master." it muttered, "But I'll catch on. Besides, all people die when their soul bonds are removed, no matter where they're from, so I'll get by." Close smirked viciously at this, revealing a mouthful of carnivorous teeth. It was certainly no o'rant, that was for sure.

"Quite." Lord Ire said, still unsure of exactly how he should deal with the creature. While it had been speaking, he'd analyzed it carefully, and he was already formulating a picture of its character. It acted carefree and childish about everything, however gruesome, but Lord Ire could sense an underlying bitterness about its tone. Close had claimed that he would be its master because he had its "talisman." He deduced that while the threat it had given at first was very real, it was more of a halfhearted attempt at garnering some respect, some pride, before its enslavement. Because that was what it was, Lord Ire realized, for anybody would be bitter about such a thing. "I can always kill you and find someone else" it had said, and from this Lord Ire understood that it would have a master somehow, no matter who this master was. Close was undoubtedly very powerful, if the burst of magic and its claims of traveling dimensions were any evidence. If it turned on him, it would be a formidable enemy. Lord Ire knew that whatever he did, he would not have the creature betray him.

"You haven't told me your name yet, master." Close's voice interrupted his train of thought.

"I am known as Lord Ire." Much to his chagrin, Close smirked at this.

"That's what you're known as, my lord. May I address you as my lord? Anyways, it isn't your name." it declared proudly, as if it had discovered something remarkable. Lord Ire fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"My name is beside the point." he snapped. Close looked contemplative.

"Will you tell me your name if I tell you mine?" it asked hopefully.

"Why are you so insistent upon knowing? I stopped using it long ago, when... when _He_ took them from me." Lord Ire lapsed into a brooding silence, unwillingly revisiting the past.

"Who, what, where?" Close asked, seemingly ignorant of his thoughts.

"Wulder. He took my family, everything, I-" He clenched his teeth, wondering why he'd even spoken. "Never mind that. That is the last you are getting out of me." he snarled. A thoughtful glint appeared in his eyes, and he smirked slowly. "Tell me your real name anyways, Close."

Surprisingly, Close recoiled at this, before recovering itself. Gritting its sharp teeth, which did not present a pretty sight, it relented and spoke. "I was once Nettle of Lye before I became _this_." Its yellow eyes burned fiercely, as if it were trying to glare him to death.

"Oh? And Close... or Nettle, can you disobey me? Answer truthfully." Lord Ire knew that there was a severe problem with his inquiry. If Close replied, "no," he would still know nothing. If it said "yes," he knew it was true, but that was an issue in and of itself. Either way, the situation was not ideal.

"Yes I can. I..." Close began softly, glancing down. A moment later, it raised its head and made eye contact, and Lord Ire saw some desperation in those yellow depths. "I won't, but calling me by Nettle is the first step to pushing me towards it. You are sensitive about your name... your past. A- Allow me the privilege of being protective of my own." it cried. Now Lord Ire saw under the playful and cheeky mask. He'd already gathered that whatever Close was, it forced it to seek a master. And in its moment of vulnerability, he saw that even its anger and bitterness was a facade. Under it all, Close was afraid, simply afraid of losing its free will, and so it tried its best not to do anything that might lead to such. Apparently, betrayal was certainly an option.

"I see." Lord Ire said thoughtfully. Close flinched. He could tell that it knew what he'd seen. "Do not turn traitor to me, and I will never mention it again." He looked into its eyes, and they both knew that it was a truce. Close nodded once, slowly.

"Very well, my lord." it murmured.

"Come." Lord Ire said, turning and heading towards the grimy rung ladder that reached up and eventually made its way back to the surface. They would not be going all the way, only to the bottommost reaches of his underground castle. It was a long climb to reach the surface, but he would not risk invasion by having a magical means of entry to his castle. Magical wards could always be breached. It was much harder to predict an enemy's physical traps. For one, Wulder, being a magical entity, never bothered to warn his people about pitfalls or poison, while he always attempted to nudge them away from harmful spells. It was a weakness of his enemy that he used to his best advantage.

It was many minutes spent climbing up slippery rungs in a dark, narrow tunnel scented with rust, before Lord Ire and his newly summoned servant finally emerged on the tenth floor landing of the underground fortress, incidentally the only landing that came equipped with an entryway instead of a number of lethal traps. Even so, as soon as they opened the hatch to enter the building proper, they were faced with the poison-tipped spears of two burly bisonbeck guards. Lord Ire nodded in approval. At least these ones were doing their job. He knew well enough that Wulder's fighters could easily dispatch the guards, but poison was such a lovely thing. A single hit was enough to kill in seconds, and there were people and traps around every corner. Around the hatch was also a powerful anti-concealment ward, layered on top of an alarm ward, a pain ward, and finally a self-destruct ward that spanned the entire tenth floor, which was simply a gigantic entryway. If any invader noticed and disabled the anti-concealment ward, which was likely to happen, considering the wizards on Wulder's side, they would trigger the alarm, and be struck with pain and attacked by guards. If all else failed, their way in would be destroyed. Lord Ire prided himself in his intricate security system. To make things simpler for himself, the wards on the entire thing recognized his magical signature, which was impossible to duplicate, even by Wulder's standards. That way, he could use a spell upon entry to get inside his actual home without hassle.

"Very nice wards you have, my lord. Could I suggest a nightmare spell tied into the alarm, and a soul capturing one underneath it?" Close said lightly as they passed by the guards. Lord Ire was impressed that the creature could tell what spells were on his entryway, and apparently knew of magic that even he did not know was possible. He knew intimately the powers of almost every wizard alive, and he had the capability of creating very lifelike illusions, but he could do nothing to kill so violently and directly as Close apparently could, by ripping away the soul.

"How are such spells done?" Lord Ire inquired, looking over his shoulder. Close smiled wryly.

"It is my specialty as an Ancient. I am sure my lord is familiar with the basic mind arts already." it said.

_"Mindspeak?"_ Lord Ire projected. Close nodded.

_"Precisely. Take it a step further. Give images, not words. Send ideas. Invade their minds. Give them nightmares. And finally, you can weave your power into a spell."_ it said inside Lord Ire's mind. A rush of vindictive emotions and a general feeling of foreign terror swept across his consciousness, before being quickly withdrawn.

"I see." he said aloud. "Don't do that again, by the way."

"Of course not, my lord. Merely a demonstration." Close replied.

"And your... interesting talk about souls?"

"It's an exclusive ability, I'm afraid. I can sense that you've long lost the grasp over Dark magic required. But I am at your command, my lord, remember that."

At that, Lord Ire was struck with the urge to use his servant, his weapon. He wanted to strike back at Wulder, take away the belief that fueled his strength. He wished to destroy, to kill, to crush hope and spawn fear, and he would be the one to bring back peace, an return to normalcy. And he would be their savior, not Wulder.

But not now. Now was far too early. He did not know Close's limits. He was far from a fool. He did not trust it to stay loyal. It could betray him; it had told him as much. And no matter how powerful Close was, how easily it could kill, Lord Ire knew that he would still need an army. More importantly, he knew that this wasn't a physical fight, not really. He didn't want to start a war. Killing people wouldn't help anything at all but to slake his thirst for vengeance. And that was secondary to his goal of turning the people from Wulder. He wanted to show the Entity of Light, the Creator, that He wasn't the only one with power, that Lord Ire could be something more than just a Pretender.

In order to do such a thing, he needed to take belief, not lives. If he caused terror, the people would flock to Wulder for help. If they knew it was Pretender behind it all, they would shun him further, and never would they abandon Wulder's gilded and wondrous ideas. Lord Ire would be not a murderer, but a seducer. It was tricky business. He would have take down those irredeemable lovers of Wulder, those utterly devoted to Him. They had never seen what Wulder could do to those who encroached upon his power. They didn't know that what they thought was an abundance of magic was only a meagre allowance by Wulder to people so blind they would listen to His every glorifying word. These people allowed themselves to be controlled, to be tools for a self-interested entity. Wulder's one great weakness, though, was his reliance on these tools. While His magic created them, that was long ago, when He still possessed wild, chaotic magic. But the wild magic had grown tame in His hands, and the Creator had lost His powers of creation. His very life now depended on the beings he'd made. Lord Ire smirked at the irony. He himself was also without those powers, for in his blind rage, he'd forgotten to study his enemy's actions. He'd always wondered at the number of High Races. Seven. Why stop at seven? Why not eight, or nine, or ten, or a hundred?

He'd learned why, first hand. The wild magic had never been his forte, but he'd wielded it best he could, and created his own races in an attempt to surpass Wulder. But once his seventh race came to life, the chaotic power escaped him. He could still feel it, the ambient magic swirling thickly in the air, but it no longer came to him when he called. It swarmed around him, caressing him tauntingly from time to time, but that was it. In the end, it was wild magic that controlled them all, he supposed. Even Wulder. Wulder could do nothing but guard His creations jealously, using them to keep Himself alive, now that the chaotic magic had abandoned Him.

Something struck him as odd. What had Close said? "you've long lost the grasp over Dark magic required." What did that mean? Could it be... ambient, wild, chaotic, dark magic... Did that mean that Close could wield this power of creation?

"Dark magic?" Lord Ire inquired carefully, halting. Close stopped beside him, nodding.

"You used to have it, my lord. It's a special gift, but you must have offended it by giving it nothing for its help. It will take you much effort to regain its trust." it said cryptically. Even with the strange wording, Lord Ire was sure that Close was talking about wild magic. But he hadn't known that it was conscious. He said as much.

"Regain its trust? It's sentient?"

"Why, of course. It is the one who keeps the dimensions in balance. You must give it much sacrifice in order to borrow its power." Close replied.

Lord Ire nodded absently, and continued walking. "I see." he said, though he didn't really see at all. Close only smiled knowingly.

They soon arrived in Lord Ire's personal chambers on the fourth floor. While the lower levels were dark, desolate, and built with grimy stone, the castle proper was lit brightly and whitewashed, giving the halls an austere feel. The Lord's rooms were no different, clean and proper, sparsely furnished yet welcoming.

"You'll sleep in the chamber adjacent." he told Close. "But first... is it possible to send nightmares long distances?"

"Well, it's a difficult technique that takes years to master. The mind arts are no small matter. You will have to-"

Lord Ire cut it off, "What did I summon you for? Can _you_ send nightmares long distances?" he demanded irritably. He could tell that Close was being long-winded on purpose. The cheeky attitude that masked and shielded its uncertainty was nearly back in full force, and it annoyed Lord Ire as much as it had at first. Close smirked.

"Yes."

"I want you to give nightmares to a woman named Kale Allerion." Lord Ire ordered in clipped tones. Close's smirk only grew.

"My lord, that tells me absolutely nothing. I don't know what she looks like or where she lives." it replied, looking far too smug. Lord Ire scowled, knowing that what it'd said was true. He smiled darkly a moment later, and quickly smashed images and memories of Kale together, catapulting them into Close's mind. Its smirk quickly morphed into a look of consternation, and then pain.

"Go."

"Yes, my lord."

-o-O-o-

In a Wizard's Castle far away, a castle that looked like a veritable patchwork of architecture, a certain Light Wizard tossed and turned in bed, clutching her sheets fitfully. Two small dragons, green and mottled purple in coloring, awoke and flew down to her, but nothing they tried seemed to help. They attempted to speak to her, but she only continued to writhe in the throes of terror, flinging them away.


	2. The Mission

**Author's Note**: Well, one person may or may not have read this. But that doesn't matter, since this is like my stress relief story. If anybody has any idea whatsoever of what currency people use in Amara, it would be appreciated if they would inform me. I can't seem to find it on the Internet, and I haven't read the books in awhile

* * *

"Mum!" an eager boy cried, barging through the flapping doors of his mother's chambers. It was her birthday today, and in honor of the occasion, he'd planned to surprise her this morning by jumping onto her bed. He was detained, however, by a rainbow swarm of minor dragons, all of whom were chattering loudly. Of course, he couldn't decipher their "words," since they were all his mother's dragons, but it was fairly obvious that something was wrong.

Gymn and Metta separated from the group and made some clicking noises, inviting Penn over for a look. He didn't see what the problem was, at first, for his mother seemed just to be sleeping. He turned to reprimand the dragons for the false alarm, but Gymn only thumped his tail insistently, and flew over to land clumsily on Kale's head.

That was the first thing that alerted Penn that there truly was something wrong. He knew that his mother was a light sleeper, and the dragons' chattering, coupled with Gymn's not-so-gentle landing, should have woken her long ago. Tentatively, he reached out to poke her shoulder, but he needn't have bothered with the caution. For all his prodding, she reacted as if nothing had happened, and continued to doze on. Penn would have been inclined to believe that it was a prank, if not for the fact that his mother was terribly ticklish, and would never have been able to keep up the facade of sleep under the onslaught of pokes.

He was very worried, now, because maybe this was a magical problem. Despite having wizard family members, he hadn't yet shown much magical talent. This made sense to him. There were already three wizards around to get things done, and they didn't have need of a fourth. It didn't matter that much to him. His dad was teaching him how to fight with swords, and in his opinion, that was way cooler than dripping water like Uncle Cam did, or something else weird like that. He did wish sometimes that he could use an invisible sword like his mum could, but it wasn't that much of a setback to have a visible one, since most people's were like that. But that was beside the point. The fact remained that he was no wizard, and therefore he had no idea how he could rouse his mother, who he was sure was in some sort of unnatural slumber.

"Dad! Gran'ma!" he shouted on impulse. A moment later, he berated himself for being an idiot. His father wasn't even in the castle; he'd gone out to inspect some knights-in-training, squires or some-such, all the way in Vendela, and would not be back until later that day. As for his grandmother, well, she was probably not in any sort of hearing range, considering the immense size of the castle. Penn groaned. How was he going to find her in this behemoth of a building? Knowing Lyll Allerion, she'd probably gotten out of bed ages ago, and was off wandering the halls.

"What is it, Penn?" On second thought, maybe not. By some stroke of fantastic luck, his grandmother had actually heard his call. Well, that was a relief. He smiled as Grandma Lyll waltzed gracefully in the room, but his face fell when he reminded himself of the situation.

"It's mum. She won't wake up." he said simply in explanation. The minor dragons settled around the bed chattered in agreement. Lyll dropped her smooth movements and made quickly for Kale's bedside, motioning Penn aside and swatting an indignant Gymn away.

"Oh, my baby!" Lyll cried, touching her daughter's motionless form gently. Kale didn't even twitch in response. Lyll began doing something with her magic, none of which made any sense to Penn. He sat back and watched with trepidation.

-o-O-o-

It had been a few hours, and still, nothing had happened. Kale was still in a comatose sleep, and Lyll was on the verge of distress. She'd sent Penn away, since he'd taken to pacing nervously, and she had no idea what to do. Sighing, she turned and left the room for the library. She knew she had to keep a level head and figure out what was wrong.

-o-O-o-

Thousands of kilometers away, a creature that appeared to be an o'rant boy lay sprawled on the floor next to a small iron bedstead, completely unmoving. Its eerie, unnatural yellow eyes were wide open and glassy, and its chest did not appear to rise or fall. Only when listening very closely, could one hear a quiet thump, thump of a heartbeat, though it was distressingly slow; upon careful scrutiny, it was also possible to see the boy inhale and exhale ever so slightly about once a minute. But, lying apparently motionless as it was, it could have been dead, for all anyone could see of its life signs.

Lord Ire certainly thought it was, at first glance, and he gave it a swift kick in the ribs to make sure. The action gave him negative feedback in that respect, but he supposed that that was a good thing. Close was most certainly _not_ dead.

It shot up into a sitting position, flailing around wildly, before it seemed to regain its senses enough to calm down.

"My lord, I was in a deep meditative state." it said, scowling.

"My servant, you looked to be more in a dead state." Lord Ire replied sardonically.

"Pah, same difference." Close muttered. "I was having some fun in Miss Kale Allerion's mind."

"Were you now?" Lord Ire raised an eyebrow at it.

"Yes, I daresay I nearly destroyed her consciousness!" it said with childish enthusiasm, smiling. A moment later, its smile turned upside down, "but she's probably got it all back in order by now. I didn't finish up."

"I thought it was to be only a simple nightmare." Lord Ire said icily. Close's face fell further.

"Well, yes, but I didn't think you'd mind if I messed around a little." it muttered.

"You claim to know what I plan?" Lord Ire wasn't actually angry. In fact, he was rather pleased that the errant Light Wizard got some of what was coming to her. However, he didn't want his troublesome summoned help to unknowingly foil future plans, and he would have to take action now to prevent it.

"No, my lord." Close said in a small voice, withdrawing slightly and bowing its head. "Forgive me. It was not my place."

Lord Ire picked the creature up by its collar, eliciting a surprised yelp and a fearful widening of yellow eyes. He locked gazes with it for a few moments before it finally reacted and looked away nervously. He dropped the offending creature and crossed his arms.

"It won't happen again." he said with finality, and they both knew that that was that. Close nodded wordlessly. "Good. Now, I want to know what use you are outside of attacking people mentally and, of course, disobeying orders."

Close grimaced. "Assassination, interrogation, infiltration, and..." it came up short. Lord Ire stared it down disapprovingly, and it cringed. "I can cook." it offered up lamely. Lord Ire rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Fine, fine. I'll make do with what few skills you have." he said, making an unsatisfied humming noise in the back of his throat. He knew he was overdoing it, but it didn't matter, as long as Close would drop its superior attitude. Lord Ire was, in fact, very pleased. The skill set that Close apparently thought was inadequate was in fact just the opposite. By itself, it could do as much as three men; in fact, considering the stilted intelligence of even Lord Ire's best race, it probably made up for an entire platoon of people.

"Does my lord have orders?" Close inquired tentatively. Well, it looked like the creature was trying to please. He needed to test out its capabilities anyways, and Lord Ire was not one to pass up such an opportunity.

"Yes, in fact. You said you had abilities in infiltration?" He didn't wait for Close to nod. "I want you to watch the wizards for me. They are the most formidable of Wulder's people, and I want you to know them intimately. Their strengths of character, their weaknesses, their habits, the works."

"Do they all live together?" Close asked. Lord Ire blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected that one. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Of course not, you imbecile. You will spy on them in turn. There are not many-less than twenty are able to battle. They live in generally conspicuous castles, so they should not be too difficult to find. Just know that they all have special abilities, powers, if you will."

"Very well, my lord. But... is Kale Allerion one of these wizards?" Close asked hesitantly.

"She is." Lord Ire replied, curious as to where the question would lead.

"I see. She had some rather remarkable mental defenses around her consciousness, but they did not seem to be her creation."

"Wulder." murmured Lord Ire dangerously. "Even in sleep." It was remarkable how far Wulder reached into his people's lives. As long as they held a shred of belief, they were guarded closely, jealously, so that they would never leave. He protected them so well. Protected them, even from themselves, from doubt itself. Lord Ire sighed. This would be a long and hard battle; it had already been such a battle, but the true trials were yet to come. Somehow, he would have to remove Wulder's influence, slowly and subtly. He had to draw belief away into something else, some meaningless idol. It was all one big nightmare, and sometimes Lord Ire wondered why he even tried. It was one against a million, really. He barely even noticed as Close slipped from the room.

Close. Lord Ire did not dream often, but when he did, it was always of the utmost importance. Had he chosen right, to listen, to summon this creature? Close had appeared in his dreams, but that was the extent of the guidance he'd received. He could choose to see it as an omen of victory, the deliverance of a weapon of war... or he could use Close like he used his other races. There wasn't really anything special about the creature. He couldn't rely on it as if it were some powerful catalyst for success, not when it was just an o'rant like boy with a few useful skills. That was Wulder's kind of thing. In the past, Wulder relied almost solely on the two dozen wizards through whom He channeled His power. He had made Paladin train warriors, but a few knights were nothing in the grand scheme of things. And while it was possible that Close was a match for a medley of wizards, Lord Ire knew that he shouldn't place his bets on such high stakes as Wulder. Let the self proclaimed God stand on his narrow and precarious pedestal, but Lord Ire would make sure he had somewhere safe to fall back to, in case all did not go as planned. All rarely did play out for the best, in reality.

Betrayal was always an unpredictable factor. Didn't the turning of three of Wulder's most powerful wizards serve as proof of that? Wizard Risto had grown power hungry, and Wizards Stox and Cropper had found themselves a with penchant for raising havoc. With such a split in His forces, Wulder had been forced to send His other wizards out to exterminate the wayward ones.

It was possible, certainly possible to take Wulder down. But it would require much careful planning, and there would be no room for mistakes or dissension. When the forces of Light began to fray at the edges, Lord Ire's people would have to be at a ready, and they would appear so strong and unified that Wulder would not stand a chance.

He would taste the pain He'd caused, a thousand times over. He would learn the meaning of weakness, of vulnerability, of unforgiving terror. He would be burned to ashes by Lord Ire's work of revenge.

-o-O-o-

A pale woman sat up ramrod straight in bed, disoriented yet alert. Kale... that was her name. She felt as if something absolutely horrid had happened, yet she had no recollection of it whatsoever. She was sweaty and shaking, hot and cold all at once, as if she had a fever, but she knew she wasn't sick. This wasn't sickness, this clammy feeling in her gut, or the heated pounding sensation in her head. It was the remnant of great terror, the horror of a near death experience. But she couldn't remember any of it.

She didn't have time to wrack her brains for some recollection, or to perhaps clear her mind and calm down, for another person chose that instant to come barging inside. A woman... her mother. Yes, this was her mother. As soon as Lyll saw her baby girl awake, she flew into a hysterical frenzy.

"Kale! Kale!" The woman in question couldn't discern anything else that her mother said, for she was engulfed by a vicious hug. Tears ran down her face, and she didn't know why. She clutched Lyll tightly, rocking back and forth and making comforting noises, but she didn't know if they were for herself or her agitated mother.

"I... I'm alright." she said quietly. They both knew it wasn't true, but Lyll let her go and gave her a wan smile, backing slowly from the room. It was unspoken, some sort of mother-daughter knowing, but Kale needed to be alone, and Lyll understood. There was so much that needed fixing, that needed to be put back together. A swarm of minor dragons landed all over her. The purple one... Metta... gave a discordant trill, reflecting Kale's scrambled mindset.

Something soothed her. Magic... magic, from the green dragon. Gymn. Gymn, the healing dragon. It was all coming back now, all of those things she never thought were important, yet were the defining aspects of her life. Everything was quickly reordering itself in her mind, repairing itself. She remembered now, all except for what had been so scary. That remained a mystery.

Kale shook her head, sighing. It was her birthday today. Comforted by the sentimental value, she shooed the dragons away playfully and leapt out of bed in a bid for joy, twirling to change her attire. Her clothes turned out plain and somber, for she could not quite hide her discomfort, but a few forcibly cheerful thoughts made them much nicer to see.

As she left the room, she was tackled by her son, her beautiful son, Penn. He hugged her tightly, and made her promise never to scare him like that again, because it was his job to mess with her, not the other way around. A true smile graced Kale's lips. It had only been a dream, whatever terror she'd seen. Whatever nightmare she'd experienced, it probably wasn't important. She hadn't even remembered it, after all. She had a birthday waiting, with a family, and a cake. Bardon would be missing half of it, but that didn't matter. She was proud for her husband's responsibilities, even if she thought he was overworking himself just a little. It was a time for relaxation, for normalcy. She sighed in contentment, unknown nightmare forgotten.

-o-O-o-

Close was traveling, moving randomly, in fact, and he found himself in a town called Kringlen. His lord had not bothered to tell him the way to any wizard's castles, or what kind of information to gather. No... Lord Ire had pretty much specified that he pay attention to just about everything. It wouldn't be easy, and Close knew it. The only wizard he knew about right now was Kale Allerion, and he didn't know how to go about finding her.

Once he managed to seek her out, he knew exactly what he would do. He would pretend to be her friend, in order to gain her confidence, and she would help lead her to the other wizards. It was vague, but it was a good plan; or, at least, it would be a good plan if he could just get to her somehow. After all, it wasn't as if he could just ask around for her. That would be the ultimate giveaway of his mission, no matter who it was who heard.

Wizards must be important, if there were so few of them. They seemed like government agents, and Close had a hunch that he could get some file on them from the capital. The capital... speaking of which, he had no idea what that happened to be, or even what country or world he was in. His lord really hadn't told him much. Perhaps it was because Lord Ire didn't even think of him as a person! Close knew that the man refused to even ascribe a gender to him, deigning to call him an "it." It wasn't important, but it ticked Close off, and it made him feel worthless.

He sighed, resigning himself to his task. If he could engage somebody in a conversation about the capital, he could probably glean its name from their mind, but he was wary of entering into something he was unsure of. How could he even start talking about it without knowing it?

Close stopped in his tracks, shaking his head at his own stupidity as an important point occurred to him. He was no longer serving a master with moral rules of conduct. He had not been told not to harm anyone or not to do anything illegal. He didn't even know what kind of things were illegal in this place. What did it matter if he kidnapped a street urchin and mind raped them? People here probably didn't even know how to harness the mind magics, if his master's ineptitude at it was any indication. It would be much easier than bumbling around, ignorant of all the customs of the world.

Decided, Close made his way towards the docks. Even in the middle of town, he could smell the sea air, and the flavor was getting stronger all the while as he approached the seafront. Ducking into a side alley, he focused on the clothing he'd seen of wealthy people, and twirled sharply, changing his attire and adding a good few centimeters to his height with a touch of illusory magic. He'd lost his wand when he was summoned, but apparently, magic, both internal and ambient, was far easier to harness in this world than it was in others. It was strange, but Close wasn't going to complain. The less crutches he needed to access his power, the better.

Satisfied, he ambled about, loitering near the docks and trying his best to appear unmindful of his surroundings. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a pair of dirty boys sizing him up. Perfect. He continued walking at a languid pace, purposely letting his "wallet," which was also an illusion, stick out of his pocket.

It was classic. The boys tried to rob him, the younger one bumping into him and apologizing profusely, while the elder darted in to grab the spoils. Unfortunately for them, it just wasn't their day. Close knocked the smaller one unconscious with a whack to the head, and grabbed the older boy's arm sharply, pulling him behind a large stack of crates.

"Don't struggle, and this will be less painful for you." he hissed, turning the boy's head around to face him. The child's teeth were bared in some attempt at intimidation, but his eyes, wide and fearful, betrayed all. Close waved his hand, making a magical dome to conceal them, and dove mercilessly into the boy's mind as soon as he made eye contact.

Images rushed to him, and, with the air of one experienced in such things, he quickly sifted through them and separated the real from the imaginary. He snatched up names of places as they flashed by, and, still unsatisfied, pushed his attack deeper, prodding harshly at the loose packet of memories that formed "gentry manners" and contained cultural expectations. Distantly, he heard the boy's inhuman screams as his mind was assaulted in the worst and most painful manner. Giving a last cursory glance to the maelstrom of ideas, he withdrew from the other's mind and returned to his own.

The boy continued to whimper and gibber incoherently as Close threw him casually to the ground. The child's mind was in a twisted jumble, and he would probably never recover sanity without the aid of another Mind Master, aid which he was unlikely to receive in this world. He was expendable anyways, a street urchin that nobody cared for. Come time for the shipment of these crates, he would be found lying on the ground where he'd been left, and the sailors would probably kick him around, giving his broken mind more pain. Close felt merciful today. He picked up the boy again. Dispelling the protective magic from his eyes, he gently shifted the boy's lolling head to face him, and glared sharply when he made eye contact. A wave of heady magic washed through him as the boy died. It had been too long, far too long since he'd used his death glare on someone.

Carefully reapplying the safety magic on his eyes, and changing their color to a more natural green, Close emerged from behind the pile of crates and walked at a leisurely pace towards the southern gate of Kringlen. The street urchin hadn't known much of geography, but it was enough for Close's purposes. Rifling through the surface thoughts of the dockworkers and focusing on Vendela, the capital city, Close learned its location quickly enough. It was to the southwest, nestled in the eastern foothills of the Kattaboom mountain range and just north of where the Kutwyk and Cushon rivers met. He would have to go around the mountains, since there wasn't a definite path through them, but it wasn't much of a detour. But while he didn't want to travel such a large distance by foot, he was chary of getting a ride with anyone before he built up his false identity. He supposed he'd just have to wheedle a lift from some farmer later, after he'd created a solid background for himself.

It was three quarters of an hour before he reached the town gate. He knew the journey to Vendela would be a long one, but he decided against bringing anything but a supply of water. He wasn't an Ancient for nothing, and he would be damned if he could not at least hunt for food on his own. He didn't have any of this world's currency anyways, and Close refused to be reduced to stealing.

The guards were somewhat reluctant to let a little boy through the gates so late in the day, but, tired of waiting, Close simply jumbled their surface thoughts a little and slipped past the confused men. People ignorant of mind defenses were so easy to manipulate.

The sun was setting by the time Close was out of sight of Kringlen. He did not bother to hurry, seeing as Lord Ire never even gave him time restraints for his mission. He had enough water for a week, perhaps, and if he ran out, well... he would worry about that when the time came.

He cast his thoughts around for a good cover story. He had the body of a child, and it would be best if he tailored his story around that, since illusory magic for his age would be tiring to maintain, and possible to see through. He would definitely need to do something about the light smattering of scales that covered parts of his body. He'd learned about the seven High Races, although he hadn't gotten a clear picture of anything but the o'rant and the marione. It appeared that the street urchin whose mind he'd sifted through had never seen any people of the other races. It didn't matter, though, since Close knew he looked most like an o'rant, as long as he kept up the minor illusions over his unnatural eyes and over his scaled throat.

The first thing he needed, besides his species, was a name. It was always amusing to come up with an alias, but it was usually important to create one that was rather unmemorable. It also couldn't be too common, as that could attract suspicion.

The problem was, Close had no idea what passed for a normal name in this world. The few names he'd seen and heard so far had all seemed outlandish to him, and he had little doubt that John Smith would be an oddity for them. Perhaps strange was the way things were normally. Well, he supposed that if they had creative names, then he could make a name to rival theirs. He would be in the uppermost deciles of their name lists.

Deciles. That was a start for a strange surname. He wracked his brains for a good first name. Valerian. That was the name of some fancy lord of some fancy dimension. Valerian Deciles. Close nearly choked on his own laughter. What an absolutely horrid name.

No, that wouldn't do. He needed a name he could be called by without gagging. Part of him was ready to just settle for Close Deciles, but he knew he shouldn't use his Ancient name for an alias. It could be traced back to him in the future, and he didn't want to take that risk.

It was night time by the time Close decided to find someplace to sleep. Veering off the main path, he ducked under a large bush that formed a hollow and prepared to rest. He'd even come up with a suitable name by then.

"Torre Siles."

It would do for now.


End file.
